


The Making of Alexandros

by krith



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Character Study, Daddy Kink, F/M, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Poverty, Prostitution, Protective Mycroft, streetwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27353116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krith/pseuds/krith
Summary: Please note that this work is incomplete and abandoned! I absolutely will not be finishing it. However, what exists is pretty substantial, and kind of interesting, so may be worth a look for some Mythea shippers, since there's not much out there.A teenaged, streetwalker version of Anthea is picked up by an older man in an expensive car who wants to tailor her into his perfect, bespoke assistant. Do you enjoy both Greek mythology references and inappropriate daddy/girl dynamics? Please mind the underage warning.Originally written May 2016.
Relationships: Anthea/Mycroft Holmes
Kudos: 13
Collections: Krith's Mycroft/Anthea fic





	The Making of Alexandros

**Author's Note:**

> I will be posting some of the better of my old, abandoned Mycroft fics as part of a larger project about fanfiction that I'm working on. While I always appreciate comments, I also know the pain of an incomplete fic, so I want to be transparent that no amount of begging will get me to resume work on these fics. I hope their quantity and quality may partially make up for their incomplete-ness.

It was getting late, and Akraia was getting desperate.

She tried to be careful about who she approached, but on nights like this she had to consider lowering her (admittedly pathetic) standards if she wanted to pay rent for the next week. She had made five attempts already -- all professional men, all somewhat nervous, which usually indicated both discretion and a low likelihood of violence. Careful men. Men who didn’t want to be caught, but couldn’t quite afford the price of hiring an escort.

She glanced up and down the seedy London street, biting her lip as she hoped for just one more good mark before she began to consider some less savory options. She had quickly learned to dress up her body, but to dress down her beauty. The former got work; the latter attracted trouble.

She had noticed the car almost an hour ago, sitting halfway down the block on the far side, all sleek black lines and tinted windows that stood out in a neighborhood of dented sedans and run-down lemons. She could almost smell the expensive engineering from here, and she wondered idly about it, but it appeared to be deserted. Not that one could be entirely sure, with the windows as opaque as they were.

So she noticed when the car began to move slowly, without anyone having approached and entered. That meant that whomever was inside had been there the whole time after all.

She smoothed down her miniskirt as she watched the car roll down the block toward her, wondering at its destination. Akraia couldn’t imagine what in her little neighborhood could possibly be of interest to the kind of men that were likely to be inside of that vehicle. She felt her heart speed up a bit as the car pulled up to the kerb directly in front of her and a window rolled down.

A middle-aged, auburn-haired man with a cool, hawkish expression and a posh suit was looking directly at her. Akraia blinked at him and took a step back.

“Please join me, Akraia,” he said, in a standard accent, sounding exactly like a man who looked like him would sound on the telly. She found herself wanting to take a second step back, but he raised his eyebrows at her, and something about the look quelled the impulse.

He held up a small bundle with a £100 note visible on the outside, casually, between two long fingers, flashing it briefly through her field of vision. Akraia knew that her eyes followed it hungrily, and wished that she could have controlled herself… but there was nothing for it now.

The car and the man both made her nervous, because he wasn’t nervous enough. This was the sort of scenario that got young, destitute hookers dead on the crimes page of the London Times, she was pretty sure.

He was still just staring at her, as if interested to see what she would decide. After a moment, he added: “I do hate repeating myself. Please get in the car, my dear. I promise that I will return you to this very spot within the hour if you so desire.”

What could she do? She needed to pay her rent. And eat. Against her better judgment, she got in the car. 

The interior smelled of leather and money, and the man made plenty of room for her, not showing any inclination to cozy up to her here in the back of the vehicle. In fact, as soon as she was in and the door was closed, he promptly handed her the hundred-pound note and then proceeded to ignore her thoroughly, instead gazing out the window at the darkening London street. She squirreled the money away in her bra without comment.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye… he was not handsome, with his hooked nose and his chilly grey eyes, but he was certainly intimidating and well-dressed, and he exuded sheer power in a way that she had never witnessed in-person before but that she instantly recognized. Twice she considered asking a question -- Who are you? Where are we going? -- but she decided that now that she was in here, she was better off finding out what he wanted in his own due time. She was calculating that as more likely to involve even more money in her hands at the end of it.

Against his knee was an old-fashioned umbrella, and he tapped his long fingers against the wood handle as they glided through the streets, making a direct line from Akraia’s own neighborhood to Hyde Park, which was not a long trip but certainly represented a distance that she had no power to travel on her own. Once there he made no move to exit, and it took her a few seconds to realize that the driver was getting the door for them.

Akraia stepped onto a much cleaner kerb than the one from which she’d entered the car, and the man beside her unfolded himself to his full height beside her. If she had not been so tall herself, he would have towered over her, but even as it was he had a considerable advantage.

“Come along,” he told her, apparently not the least bit discomfited by leading an obvious on-the-clock streetwalker from his very fancy car into the very fancy hotel at which they’d arrived. She followed, her cheap heels clacking loudly on the marble floors, across the lobby where surprisingly nobody stared at them, into the lift, and up to the penthouse.

Akraia knew that she must be coming off as a wide-eyed naif… it was true that she had never seen anything like this suite, with the four-poster king bed on a raised platform, the fully stocked bar, the richly-appointed sitting room. She wanted to take it all in, but she didn’t want him to know that she was taking it all in. He turned to look directly at her for the first time since she’d gotten into the car, and his eyes raked over her from the top of her head to the soles of her ill-shod feet in half a second.

And Akraia realized that she had just been laid totally bare.

She still wore the hot pink minidress that usually got her work, but she felt utterly denuded before that gaze, and she realized that chilly was not a strong enough word for this man. He was _ice_. Frozen through. Slippery, cold, and dangerous. And here she was, alone with him, in a suite that probably cost more money for a single night than she had seen in the last month.

Was she supposed to undress? Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure if that was what he wanted. She fought not to fidget under his gaze, certain that he was sizing her up for… something.

“Please take a shower, and dress in the clothes in the bathroom,” he said, and then stared at her expectantly, clearly waiting to see whether she would comply.

Akraia considered her options, but the truth was that the deeper she got into this, the more worrisome it all seemed. Usually when she was under threat it brought out the fight in her, but something about this man with his posh accent and bespoke suit and his terrifying grey eyes made it seem as if it might simply be easier and safer to do whatever he said.

She stared back at him for a moment, then turned and went to the bathroom without a word.

What did she have to lose? She already had £100 in her possession, and she could use a thorough shower under cleaner conditions than her squalid little room could afford. At least she’d be clean when she found out what he wanted.

She glanced at the clothes first, curious. Folded neatly on the counter were plain black yoga pants and a thick, warm jumper, along with knickers, socks and a bra. Plain, high-quality fare, all in her size. 

Nothing kinky. Okay.

Akraia took her time in the shower, sniffing each of the expensive products that were provided, letting the impressive pressure and scalding hot water pound at the tense muscles of her back and shoulders. The towels were thick and fluffy, and the tile floor surprisingly warm under her toes. She took the time to trim her nails, even pushing back her formerly grimy, torn cuticles under the hot water from the waterfall faucet. She washed her face, frowning at the greenish remnants of the black eye that she’d gotten last week, when she’d been too close to a scuffle between a john and a jealous girlfriend who had come out of nowhere.

She dressed slowly, looking at herself in the mirror. Her clean hair now lay around her shoulders in a glossy sheaf, and her eyes actually looked greener without all the makeup on her face. She carefully clasped her silver charm bracelet back onto her wrist -- it was the only jewelry she owned that was worth something, but fortunately not quite enough to make her a target. The rest of her accessories she left in an unsavory pile on the floor with her minidress.

With one last glance in the mirror, she realized that she looked her age. She wondered if that was good or bad. If only she had some idea of why she was here. Her mouth was beginning to taste sour with the fear in the back of her throat.

Eventually she had to emerge, and found her strange caller sitting at the desk in the sitting area, engaged with a laptop that he had taken from his attaché case. He looked up immediately at the quiet sound of the bathroom door opening, and closed the laptop, standing up.

The aroma of hot food filled the air, and he gestured with his chin toward the dining table, on top of which lay a spread of platters, many of them still covered. Akraia had eaten earlier today, but it’d been a while since she’d been able to eat more than enough to tide herself over, keep herself working. She was salivating immediately, and though it seemed like he shouldn’t be able to discern as much, for some reason she felt that she had not a single secret from this man.

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap even as her gaze flitted between the various selections that were uncovered. He seated himself across from her -- there was only a place setting on one side, her side. He simply steepled his hands before him and watched her.

“Please, eat.”

And so she ate.

She was careful not to bolt the first few courses, not wanting to betray the depth of her hunger for warm, filling, delicious food like this, but the truth was that she tore through an omelette, potatoes, toast, fruit, and half a reuben sandwich in less time than was probably very good for her stomach. By the time she began to slow down, she realized that she was feeling queasy, but she resolved that she was going to keep the calories down no matter what it took.

He watched her eat. For a moment she wondered if maybe _this_ was his kink -- clean her up and feed her. The truth was, between the money she’d already gotten and the clothes and the meal, this had already been ninety minutes well spent. That was, assuming he wasn’t planning to slowly torture her and murder her next.

She looked up as she put down her fork, and realized from the small, unpleasant smile on his face that he knew full well that she’d eaten herself sick. Akraia wondered if it was possible to conceal anything from this mysterious auburn-haired man, and if not, how anyone that knew him managed to live with him around.

Self-consciously, she picked up the cloth napkin and wiped her mouth, then set it on the table. She was sure that she was missing the finer points of etiquette, sure that he would notice all of her flaws. But she knew to keep her mouth shut when she was chewing and she was a naturally tidy person despite her circumstances, so she did her best to tell herself that she was comporting herself as well as could be expected, under the circumstances.

When he finally spoke, it was without moving a muscle from the posture in which he’d watched her consume about 2500 calories in a sitting.

“Tell me, Akraia, how would you like to never turn another trick again?”

She felt a strange squeezing sensation in her chest at his words, felt herself go pale. How did he know her name? Was he messing with her? Where was this supposed to go? She looked around the suite again, as if re-evaluating it in light of his question. “That depends. What would I be doing instead of turning tricks?”

She saw just a flicker in his grey eyes, and had the sense that perhaps she had pleased him. He sat back in his chair. “You would be working for me. Generally in environments similar to this one.”

He let that sink in a moment, obviously aware that Akraia was both impressed and intimidated by their surroundings no matter how hard she was trying to keep her eyes in her head.

She swallowed, slowly. _Working_ for him? She wondered how much, if any, of that work was supposed to take place on her back, but on the other hand he had said she would never turn a trick again. But maybe in his eyes, making her a kept woman would be different than her tricking.

Well, she couldn’t deny that it would be a better class of tricking.

“Working for you,” she repeated dubiously. “Doing what?” It was the obvious question.

He smiled at her, and the smile went nowhere near his eyes. “Absolutely anything that I told you to do. Just like everyone else who works for me.”

Akraia couldn’t help it, his gaze was too intense to hold, so she found herself looking down at her hands instead. Clean hands -- scrubbed to within an inch of their lives now -- but calloused. She knew that they were not the hands of a woman with a bright future.

“Including --?”

He waved a hand through the air, effectively cutting off what she was clearly implying. She heard her mouth shut with an audible snap, so effective was his ability to curtail her tongue.

“Don’t be crass, Akraia. If you accept this arrangement, I will own _all_ of you. I am sure that you will be able to offer an impressive array of services, or I would not be offering you the position. But you will find that there is nothing that I require of you that you are not ultimately happy to provide. That is the nature of a functional arrangement.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as he talked, attending carefully to his words and their implications. The way he said it, that wasn’t exactly ruling sex out. He was just saying that if it happened, she would be happy about it. That ruled out rape, at least.

She supposed that she should have been alarmed, but the fact was that, for some reason she didn’t quite understand, his words instead ignited a low burn deep between her thighs. This man _frightened_ her. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to _belong_ to him, no matter how good the compensation package.

She made herself raise her eyes to his again, and felt a hard lump high in her throat at the way that he was regarding her. It was proprietary.

Really, there was only one more question that mattered, and she had to ask it, no matter how intimidating he was, sitting in a room like this looking completely at home, and yet like a man who was equally at home with dreadful acts. 

She had to ask it. She took a deep breath and met his eyes. “Okay. Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away, his eyes moving over her face. Then he gave her another smile, a tight one this time, and for the briefest moment she wondered if maybe -- _maybe_ \-- he had something at stake here tonight too. Was that even possible? For a man like him, with a girl like her? What could _he_ possibly have at stake?

“May I see your bracelet?” he asked, and she blinked.

She looked down into her lap at her clasped hands. She had them folded so that the shaking would not be visible. She moved them slowly to the tabletop, gingerly pushing her plate to the side and putting her hands palm-down where the plate had been, the bracelet visible on her wrist. It minimised the shaking, but there was no pretending that he might not notice it.

He didn’t even glance down, though; he was still watching her face.

“Four charms: a pomegranate, a peacock, a lily, and a cow. For a girl who chose Akraia as her... professional name.”

Her mouth was going dry now. How did he know what charms were on her bracelet without looking at it?

“You understand the reference.” It was all she could think of to say.

He scoffed. “Of course I do. What’s interesting, Akraia, is that _you_ do. Tell me.”

She refrained from fidgeting, which was harder and harder as the interview progressed. “Look, I may be trash to men like you. I may even be a whore, I obviously can’t argue that point. But I’m not stupid.” She felt her fighting spirit assert itself for just a second in the face of his implication.

“No, of course you aren’t. Your father gave you that bracelet, didn’t he?” There was a strange tone as he asked this question, and Akraia glanced up again. Sure enough, his expression had something vaguely, well, wistful about it. It was a surprising look on him.

She considered lying, but what was the point of that? “Yeah.” She heard the petulance in her voice, and though she hated it, it was better that he heard the petulance than the hurt that lay beneath it.

“Your father isn’t coming back, Akraia,” he told her, and his voice was strangely gentle. “But that doesn’t mean that there’s not another man who could take care of you. I could be that man. I would like to be.”

Now, now her heart was beginning to hammer in her chest. What did he know about her father? What did he know about _her_?

“I can take care of myself,” she spat, and in response he simply laughed. What else did he need to say? She flushed hotly, well aware that her life didn’t do much to support her assertion. It was not a kind laugh, and he folded his arms as he smiled at her, clearly moving past his moment of strange vulnerability.

He ignored her words, giving them all the attention they deserved. “I’m making you this offer because of the charms on that bracelet, and because of the careful and clever ways that you choose your customers. You may not be educated, but you are right, Akraia, you are certainly not stupid.” He paused. “And if _I_ am the one to educate you, then that sharp little mind of yours -- which most men will fail to notice, because of the face and body that it’s packaged with -- will be a formidable resource in my arsenal.”

She realised that he was talking to her seriously, like an adult. She was certain that the agendas and motivations of a man like this one were too complex for her to even imagine, and yet at the same time she was pretty certain that what he was saying was, at least on some level, accurate. He meant what he said. He had chosen her because he thought that she was smart, beneath the hot pink lycra and the mascara and the cheap platform heels, and because he recognized that her beauty would be the perfect distraction from her brain.

There was more to it than that, but she did at least believe the parts that he was sharing.

“What, exactly, do you do for a living?”

He gave the slightest look of surprise at her question, but his answer was prompt. “You will be helping me keep the world safe.”

Not _would_ be. _Will_ be. As if she’d already accepted his offer.

Again, she felt a pool of warmth at his arrogant presumption. He’d really just picked a hooker up off of the street, picked her out like a fucking piece of fruit at the market, and intended to adopt her and shape her into the perfect whatever-it-was-he-was-seeking.

And offering her a life.

Perhaps a more comfortable life in many respects, but she was terrified of the way that power dripped off of this man. Whatever life he lived, it was probably not a restful one. He had not strictly speaking yet made it clear to her which side of the law he lived on -- she still supposed it was possible that he was some kind of eccentric criminal kingpin -- but all of her instincts told her otherwise, and Akraia had learned to trust her instincts in the two years since she’d left home.

“You know I’m still a minor?” She still wasn’t sure whether she wanted this life he was offering her or not -- she was still awfully hazy on some important details, like her exact degree of bodily autonomy. Either way, surely keeping this man happy was preferable to what she’d been doing for the past year.

“I didn’t ask, and I don’t care in the slightest,” he said in a bored voice.

She hesitated a second, though she knew that it showed on her face that she already had another question and was simply torn over asking it. “Will you require me to do things that hurt other people?”

He rocked back on his chair for a moment, and his bored air disintegrated as she saw that she had caught his interest. He studied her closely for a moment.

“Yes, sometimes. As infrequently as I can manage. And always for the common good and in the public interest.” He paused. “I will also teach you how to execute those orders and still sleep at night, and how to make difficult choices.”

She watched his eyes as he said it, frightening as it was to do, and though they were no warmer -- she didn’t think that they _got_ warmer -- she did believe that she saw sincerity there. She nodded.

“Okay.” She tried to say it firmly, thought she succeeded reasonably. “If you’re serious, then I’m yours, I guess.” 

He paused, then smiled at her. “Very good…” he let a beat pass. “Anthea.”

She folded her hands back in her lap, and thought quickly. He had as good as said that he wanted her cleverness, he wanted her to be quick on her feet. Why would he suddenly be addressing her by the wrong name?

Because that was the _right_ name, now that she had agreed.

And how should she respond to him now?

“Thank you, sir?” she tried, her heart speeding up in anxiety over how she was performing on this first test.

And for a moment, that small, practiced smile that he sometimes wore turned into a genuine look of approval, and Anthea felt herself warm in several respects all at once, which got it all mixed together in her nervous system in a way that left her short of breath.

Which he noticed. She was starting to understand that her new… well, _owner_ , she supposed was the honest word for it, though boss sounded nicer, noticed _everything_. This had vast implications for her new life, she realised.

He crossed his arms, assuming a slightly more casual air, or as casual as one could get while wearing a suit that formidable. “I have taken care of your room, and your few personal possessions are being boxed up and shipped to your new flat, which is located about a kilometre from my personal residence. I want you to have easy access to me, but I’ll also require you to have your privacy, in certain respects.”

“This is… already happening?” She quailed inside at saying anything, anything that this man might interpret as criticism, but was he serious? “What if I had decided to go home?”

He shook his head in an openly condescending manner. “Oh, Anthea. We both know that you were never going to decide to go home.”

She felt a shiver go through her. She wanted to let it drop, she did, but she just couldn’t. “I might have. I _could_ have,” she insisted, but she sounded somewhat weak even to her own ears.

He certainly didn’t look convinced. “And what does it matter, my dear? You didn’t. Let’s move on.” He raised one brow at her, waiting for her indication that he could continue.

And the truth of it was, he was right. She had already decided, and his presumption was justified, and she had understood when she decided that she was giving herself to this man, giving him her loyalty and her wits and even giving him carte blanche to shape the woman that she would finish growing into.

What did it matter, indeed?

* * *

She stayed by herself at the hotel for the next two days, and a selection of sensible, comfortable clothes in her size were presented to her. She mostly ate like a pig and slept absurd hours and read everything in the suite and watched the telly, and he seemed content for her to do so. She felt herself regaining strength and health, and knew that he knew exactly what he was doing.

On the second day he escorted her, in the same car with the same driver, to her new flat, a spacious studio with bookshelves that were already filled with books and a closet filled with a classically professional wardrobe, including a variety of suits that were only slightly less posh than the bespoke items that he wore.

The small but well-appointed kitchen was stocked with a variety of fresh and prepared foods. There was a sleek little laptop on the desk, and beside it the latest edition Blackberry smartphone. She had an expensive telly and high-quality kitchen appliances and even a number of framed paintings on the wall, mostly landscapes. The palette was warm, earth tones and a variety of rich blues and rusty oranges.

She was literally speechless, which amused him.

He presented her with a card and told her that she had an appointment at nine in the morning that she was expected to attend. It turned out that the card was to a spa, and when she arrived she discovered that she had an unlimited account and a full day to have her hair, nails, and body taken care of. Thinking of the wardrobe that she’d now thoroughly explored, she asked her attendees for the most classically professional option every time there was a decision to be made. 

Toward the end of her day, after a soak in the sauna and a lengthy massage that left her in a boneless heap, a pleasant young woman dressed like the other spa attendants entered the massage room, explained that she was a doctor, and gave Anthea the lowest-stress medical appointment of her life to date. She was conversational and nonjudgmental, and Anthea found herself providing an accurate medical history. The doctor drew some blood and did a pelvic exam along with a general check-up, and assured her that all of her bloodwork and STI testing results would be provided to Mr. Holmes immediately.

After the doctor was done with Anthea -- and she’d enjoyed another trip to the hot tub and the sauna as well -- she looked at herself in a full-length mirror. The woman staring back at her looked five years older than she actually was, with her sensible, short french manicure and her carefully layered hair that fell fetchingly against the front of her jacket. She thought in amazement that she could pass for a young new college grad.

And she was… well, there was no way to avoid noticing it. She was gorgeous. Akraia’s life had taken a turn for the worse at exactly the time that her beauty would have been blossoming, and her stressful and sometimes frightening life didn’t exactly allow her to look her best. And she’d quickly learned to downplay her looks anyway, to stay safer. 

But _Anthea_ had no need to hide her beauty. In her new world, Mr. Holmes told her, it would be an asset, not a liability. And this woman, in the mirror, this Anthea?

She was stunning.

Anthea smiled, and felt her Blackberry vibrate in her pocket. She fetched it out, marveling at the feel of the sleek little device in her hand.

> _I will pick you up at 8 pm this evening. Please be fed and dressed for company. -MH_

Back at the flat, Anthea stood naked in front of her closet and marveled at what a clever bastard her benefactor was turning out to be. She _knew_ how he would be dressed -- he would be dressed as he was always dressed, in a suit that could probably run the country on its own if it came to that.

But she, _she_ had to decide what to wear. She would have to greet him at the door, giving him instant insight into her expectations for the evening. Her professional wardrobe was extensive, but she also had a variety of beautiful pieces that ran the gamut from romantic, fluttery sundresses to sleek evening and cocktail gowns, and even one honest-to-god ballgown. Whomever had picked this stuff out had shopped as if they had Anthea beside them to try items on for both fit and flattery. There was also a range of comfortable clothes, athletic clothes, and pajamas, so she truly could choose to receive him wearing just about anything she could imagine.

Did she dress as if for work? Was he going to start training her in her professional duties tonight?

Or was this a date? If so, how did she feel about that? Did she want to encourage him, or discourage him? He had continued to behave toward her with impeccable manners, without any hints as to whether any of her duties would be sexual in nature. She caught no suggestion that he had a partner of either gender or children, no indication that he had any kind of personal life at all. He had sketched for her a hazy idea of what he did -- that his official title was inconsequential, that he was the central clearinghouse for every piece of sensitive information for the entire British government, and in that capacity that he advised every head of state in the land. 

She was only beginning to understand the true breadth of his influence and genius of his position. He was a puzzle and an enigma and a mystery, Mycroft Holmes.

And for the life of her she couldn’t figure out whether he intended to fuck her or not.

Anthea finally picked out a flattering but sensible black sheath, took the time to put on ( _silk!_ ) stockings over her freshly-waxed legs, and donned a pair of classic pumps. She left her hair down, styled carefully as the woman at the spa had done, and put on some mascara and eyeliner with a bit of lip gloss.

She marveled at herself in the mirror. She was going to have to get used to this or she was going to develop some genuine vanity. She wrinkled her nose at her reflection, and then started as the buzzer indicated Mr. Holmes’ arrival.

She made herself walk, not scurry, to the front door, aware that her heels were loud on the hardwood floors and that he could hear her approach. She braced herself for his cold, grey gaze and opened the door, yet she still winced when he looked her over with a critical eye. He brushed past her with an expression that didn’t exactly inspire confidence in her.

“Good evening, sir,” she tried hopefully. He turned to look at her, and she froze in place under his gaze.

“You look extraordinarily beautiful, Anthea, and this is exactly how you will dress when you accompany me to negotiations with heads of state that we want to distract, flatter and impress.”

She felt a churn of emotions -- heat at the compliment, fear at the prospect of her life including heads of state, certainty that he did not approve of her choice in spite of the compliment. Now Mr. Holmes was advancing toward her, gestured at her. “This… this will be their Anthea. Andrea, when necessary.”

With a jerk of his chin he indicated that she ought to follow him. He led her to her own bedroom, where he opened the closet door and began to sort briskly through her clothes. After a few seconds, he emerged with one of the casual dresses, a pastel floral print that set off her dark chestnut tresses, and was certainly the most girlish item in the wardrobe.

He threw it on the bed and made a gesture toward the dress. “ _This_ will be my Anthea. Please redress yourself appropriately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Anthea didn’t bother to snivel over the mis-step. He didn’t seem angry, and she had never imagined that he was going to be the sort to correct gently. If she could survive the indignities of her childhood, she could survive Mr. Holmes. At least he was actually taking _care_ of her.

She redressed, carefully. After donning the frock, she decided against stockings entirely, and then took off the dress and changed her lacy knickers and bra for something simpler and put the dress back on. Then she took the dress back off and took the bra and knickers off altogether, put the dress back on and slid her feet into the simplest, lowest-heeled shoes that would coordinate. On impulse, she grabbed half her hair on each side and quickly wrestled her locks into a pair of pigtails.

Again, instinct, once she’d seen the dress that he’d picked out for her and thought about the things he’d said during her first interview. For a moment she worried that she could be making a second mistake, but after a glance in the mirror she was pretty sure that she didn’t have to worry. She took a deep breath, realizing just how blatant she was being by flouncing out there knickerless with Mycroft Holmes, the man who noticed every charm on a bracelet from across the street.

And she realized that she didn’t care. By now it was obvious to her, no matter how much she tried to avoid noticing it, that over the last four days she had developed strong feelings on the maddening matter of whether her new self-proclaimed _owner_ intended to fuck her or not.

She emerged from her bedroom to find him standing by the window that looked down over the quiet street below, his eyes unfocused, the tip of his ever-present umbrella resting against the side of the sole of his shoe. She wondered what he was thinking about. Not her, at the moment. 

Then he looked at her, his eyes refocusing, and she saw a whole new expression on his face, and she knew exactly what it was. For the first time, his thoughts were plain as day to her, for one moment.

Thank _god_. She finally had an inkling of what she was dealing with.

He offered her his arm, as if it were the sort of thing he did every day, as if she were the sort of girl who got treated with those sorts of manners. She found herself blushing as she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, excruciatingly aware that this was the first time that he had ever initiated physical touch between them.

She didn’t have time to dwell on the contact, though, because he was talking to her as he led her down to the pavement, beginning to explain her new duties as his Personal Assistant. He was not sending her to school, but was taking on her education himself, which would go hand-in-hand with her professional training. He intended to groom her carefully into his own bespoke personal assistant, as custom and tailored to his preferences as his wardrobe.

Anthea was attentive to the didactic portion of the course, which lasted through the walk down the street and around a corner to his own residence, and for a while thereafter. He settled them into the sitting room of his modest, stand-alone home in an extremely classical style.

She answered the questions that he put to her about the education that she had received, up to about year nine. She had always been an avid reader, however, so she had a strong vocabulary and excellent grammar and had even been praised as a strong writer in her last couple of years of school.

Finally he explained to her in more detail what he himself did, and what he would eventually be training her to do as his assistant. His confidence in her capacity was both flattering and terrifying, and she was hard-pressed to believe that she would ever be capable of handling even a fraction of what he eventually expected. 

_I’m as smart as any university girl. I can learn._

Even as she hung feverishly on his words, trying to commit every one to memory, a part of Anthea became increasingly aware over the course of the interview of the way that Mr. Holmes’ eyes were drawn to admiring the lines of her throat and shoulders, or to watching her mouth as she spoke. Twice he actually began to trail off before catching himself and continuing with only the smallest hitch. 

He eventually did trail off altogether, but he didn’t conclude by asking her any kind of a question so she wasn’t really sure if she was supposed to try to keep the conversation going or not. After a few seconds, she became self-conscious, and she gave him a half-hearted smile. 

He didn’t return it, and after another moment hers faded again, and she realized that there was now a considerable amount of tension in the room. He was staring at her in fascination, and Anthea wondered if this was another test, if she was supposed to know what to do.

“No,” he said into the silence of the room.

She blinked, glanced around for a moment. “No, what?”

“You were wondering if this is a test, and no, this isn’t a test.”

She felt actual gooseflesh rise on her arms at the strange sensation of having her mind successfully read. He noticed, of course, which in return earned another amused smirk from him.

“Oh,” she said awkwardly. She tried not to fidget, but it was difficult with this much tension in the room. “What is this, then, sir?” she managed to ask, hopefully in a reasonably composed tone.

His smirk faded, and he continued to study her closely. “It’s your turn, Anthea.”

Her heart was speeding up, her palms starting to sweat. “My turn, sir?”

He raised his brows. “Yes. Your turn. I’ve been talking to you for over an hour now, educating you about your new life. You’ve had a chance to clean up, to assuage your hunger, to settle into your new flat and to accept that it’s all for real.”

“Yes, sir.” Everything he said was true, and he still wasn’t asking her a question.

“In fact, I’ve described almost every aspect of that new life to you in some detail now.”

Anthea chewed on her bottom lip. Okay, now she understood where this was going. “ _Almost_ every aspect, sir?”

He smiled slightly. “All but one.”

She tilted her head at him, staring straight at him, she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t look away, not from those terribly cold, terribly grey eyes of his. He continued then: “So now it’s your turn, my dear. You tell me. Do you have any responsibilities to me other than the ones we’ve already discussed?”

Did she really have to think about it? She’d been thinking about it for days now, as she ate good food and wore nice clothes and warmed herself as thoroughly as she liked. As she meditated on her sudden change in circumstance. 

As she considered the opportunities of her new life.

And as she considered her benefactor, and realized that she had become completely obsessed with him.

“Of course I do, sir,” Anthea answered him, in a soft, determined voice.

He looked vaguely interested now. “I see. And can you describe to me the parameters of your remaining responsibilities, Anthea?”

Okay, she couldn’t help it. She had to squirm, and she knew that she was broadcasting her _raging_ arousal. She licked her lips in desperation. “Mr. Holmes, there are no parameters. As in everything else, whatever you require, I will do my best to provide. I understood the arrangement when I accepted the position.”

His eyes went dark at her words, and she noticed the way that they fixated on her moving lips as she spoke. When he spoke, his voice was lower, slightly rough. “Most assistants don’t --”

On impulse, she dared to interrupt him. “I’m not talking about the position as your assistant, Mr. Holmes,” she said hotly, and he looked surprised for a moment at her rudeness, and then intrigued by her words.

“What position are you talking about then?”

“Well, that’s the thing, Mr. Holmes. I’m not entirely certain, because you haven’t exactly told me yet.” Anthea trailed her fingers down her own chest, to the low neckline of her dress and then past it, over the light, breezy fabric, finding and circling the prominent nub of her nipple. Sure enough his eyes followed her hand. “But you have given me some clues,” she added.

 _That_ amplified his interest. “Have I? What clues?”

She took a deep breath, considering where to start. “Well, one, clearly you want me. Sexually, I mean. And two, clearly you’re pleased that I want you.” She continued to play with herself as she spoke, and he continued to indulge her little speech. 

“You’re a powerful man, and you wanted something more than an assistant, something that you could own, so you found a way. And you wanted someone like me, someone _exactly_ like me in every other way. So why not this way? I think that you’re that careful. If you want me, and you’re pleased that I want you, that means that you wanted someone who was sexually submissive, maybe masochistic. Didn’t you?”

His eyes were finally not cold, and it sent a shiver down her spine to see the hunger there in his blown pupils and pale irises. It occurred to her that she had one hundred percent of his focus for the very first time. “Go on.”

She swallowed and nodded. “I’m young. As young as you could get away with, and still be able to pick the right girl.” She paused. “Because of how I was paying the rent you could both learn something about what kind of lay I am and also know that there’d be no chance that you’d be saddled with a girl who was frightened of sex.”

“You’re, what, only in your mid-30s, but you seem older because of how powerful you are.” Another pause, as she made connections, drew conclusions, and after a moment she nodded. “It was _important_ to you that you get to rescue me. You _want_ to take care of me now. You want me to be thoroughly, completely kept by you.”

He was nodding, slowly. “Because…?” he prompted.

_“Your father isn’t coming back, Akraia, but that doesn’t mean that there’s not another man who could take care of you. I would like to be that man.”_

She fingered the charm bracelet on her wrist, remembering his words from their first conversation. “Because _you_ want to take care of me... the way my father did. The way that a father _does_.” She gave him a nervous grin. “I think that you have a daddy kink, Mr. Holmes.”

Kink, indeed. He might be one of the most powerful men in the country, and she a destitute whore that he picked up on the street. But now they were in _her_ area of expertise, and she knew exactly what it meant, the way that he was staring into her in response to her final analysis. 

She was _exactly right_ , she knew it. And he hadn’t expected her to guess -- or maybe not that specifically -- and he was taken aback that she had.

“Very good, my dear. Any more?” he asked, prodding to see if she had any further insight into his character to offer.

“You tell me the rest,” Anthea said, not so much trying to sound younger as abandoning her usual attention to sounding older, and she was pretty sure from the look on his face that she had him. “Or _show_ me.” 

She took a deep breath, her lashes fluttering for a moment, then she steeled herself against the terror flowing freely through her veins, and she looked up, into his eyes. “You’re going to have to teach me what you want from me in this way too. So that I can be a good girl for you, Daddy.”

He became absolutely still, his breathing light and fast as he stared at her in response to her words. He was excited, and trying to keep his cool, and she realized that he had a _serious_ daddy kink, and unless she was mistaken he had never had the opportunity to indulge it before.

Okay, finally. She understood what she had to offer this man. He still terrified her -- happily her body found that terror arousing, so it was hardly going to be a hardship for her to hold up her end of this particular bargain.

Mr. Holmes reached out a hand, so she raised hers and he took it and helped her to her feet. “Leave the shoes,” he ordered in a manner that made it clear that he was used to giving orders, and she felt another rush of desire.

Anthea simply stepped out of them, abandoning them on the carpet before her chair and following him in her bare feet. He led her by the hand like one might a child, then he paused with her before one of the closed doors and he turned her so that they faced each other before the aperture. She saw him noting just how plainly nervous she was -- she was shaking, and not just a little bit -- and then he caught and held her gaze.

That didn’t do anything to improve her state. “I’m about to take you into my bedroom. Nobody besides me has ever been in this room, not since the day that I acquired this house. Do you understand?”

Her heart was hammering against her ribcage. “Yes, Daddy,” she said in a voice that quivered lightly, her light green eyes held completely captive by his. On an unexpected whim -- she rarely made decisions that way -- she added in a soft voice: “I will _never_ disrespect you in this place, Daddy, I promise.”

She realized that she meant it, so she supposed there was no harm in having made an explicit commitment. Besides, his expression was completely rapt right now, and she felt the familiar feeling that she hadn’t experienced in a long time… both her heart and her cunt swelling with warmth in response to the approval of the Right Kind of Older Man.

* * *


End file.
